


Deep Breaths

by Laylah



Series: Which Way Home [2]
Category: Baccano!
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[February 1932] Luck makes listening-politely face, which Dallas knows now is bad. You never want the Gandors making a point of being polite to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Breaths

He shouldn't be here. Dallas feels nervous just walking up the street, downright queasy when the lighted sign for Coraggioso comes into view. What the hell does he think he's doing? If he stops for a second he can remember the water closing over his head, and those awful minutes while his lungs burned trying to hold his breath, and the cold _pain_ when he couldn't anymore --

No, he needs to stop. He's just making himself sick thinking about it, won't do himself any favors. Don't dwell on the memory. Think about Eve.

Dallas squares his shoulders and walks up to the door, and he thinks walking into the Gandors' club is probably the hardest thing he's ever done.

It's almost weirdly familiar. He doesn't recognize the guys playing cards in the front room, but he's hoping that'll mean they don't have a reason to hate him already. "Mister Luck around?" he asks. Listen to him. He sounds pathetic.

"Maybe," one of the guys says. Young guy, no older than that brat Firo was when -- "Who's asking?"

For a second Dallas is actually pissed. People used to _know_ who the fuck he was. "Tell him --" he starts, and then the back room door opens and it's true, you _can_ speak of the devil and make him show. "Luck," Dallas says, and tries to smile.

Luck raises an eyebrow, which is better than telling the goons to start shooting, but damn, Dallas hates that smile.

"I mean, Mister Gandor," Dallas says.

"Dallas," Luck says. Cocky bastard. "What brings you here?" _Think of this as a farewell gift._ It's the same voice. Dallas is breaking out in a sweat.

"I need to talk to you," he gets out, and he sounds even more pathetic now. Pleading. God damn it.

Luck nods. "I'm listening."

It takes about all the courage Dallas has left to say, "In private." He chews on his lip. "Please."

The thugs are looking at each other, smirking a little, and Dallas hates them _so much_ \-- but after letting him sweat for a little longer, Luck finally nods. "This way," he says, and turns his back.

Son of a bitch. Not that Dallas is stupid enough to _want_ to start something with him now, but the insult is still there. Dallas follows anyway, up two sets of stairs, into a room that -- this must be the Gandors' business office, he figures, when Luck turns the light on and sits down behind the desk. There's a chair across from it, and Dallas hesitates for a second, then sits down. He can do this. He's not thinking about drowning much at all.

"You look remarkably well," Luck says, "considering our last parting."

Dallas feels like he's going to throw up. Like he's still full of brown river water and he'll never be done puking it back up again. "Eve said you knew," he says. "Said you, you --" he can't get the words out.

"Told her where to dredge," Luck finishes. "Yes. She's a courageous young woman, your sister."

Deep breaths. He can do this. As long as he's breathing it could always be worse. "That's. That's why I'm here." Luck makes listening-politely face, which Dallas knows now is bad. You never want the Gandors making a point of being polite to you. "I want you to leave my sister alone."

Luck blinks at him slowly. Like a God damn lizard. "Are you telling me or asking me, Dallas?"

"Asking," Dallas says. He's not that stupid. "Mister Gandor."

"I'm listening," Luck says. "I assume you have some reason. Something to offer me, perhaps?"

Of course _she's too good to be mixed up with creeps like you_ isn't reason enough for the bastard. "Getting mixed up with mafia hasn't been good for our family," Dallas starts.

"Your father and brother," Luck supplies. "My condolences." He doesn't sound especially sorry, but at least he's not outright sneering. Dallas might not have gotten along with Jeffrey and the old man, but that doesn't mean he wants anyone gloating about them.

"Right," Dallas says. "And Eve --" He thinks of her face the day they pulled him out of the water, the first thing he saw after he got done coughing up half the Hudson onto the docks. His own little guardian angel. "Eve's a good girl. I don't want anything like that happening to her."

"Your devotion is commendable," Luck says. Like _he_ gives a damn. "But I have no intention of sending anyone like Gustavo Bagetta to call on Eve."

Don't get pissed, Dallas tells himself. Ten to one if he raises his voice Berga will show up out of fucking _nowhere_, and he'll wake up in the river again and oh God he can feel the water rushing in around him and --

He's losing it, and Luck is just sitting there watching him. "That's not," he says, and can't get out _enough_. Deep breaths. The air smells like cigars. It's dry air. "I want you to leave her alone," he says again. "Not -- not take her out to dinner and try to -- charm her, or whatever."

Luck smiles, and it's awful. "What are you offering, again?" he says. "The last I heard of it, she has control of the family accounts."

"You trying to tell me you're in it for the money?" Dallas asks. He doesn't believe it. The Gandors are rolling in it lately.

"Perhaps not," Luck allows. "If I weren't?"

"I don't want you touching my sister," Dallas says, and adds, "Please," even though it doesn't sound polite enough even to him.

"Convince me," Luck says. He sounds like he's enjoying this. The prick.

Dallas licks his lips. He was afraid they were going to end up like this. "If I get up and come over there, are you going to kill me again?"

"That depends on what you do when you get here, doesn't it, Dallas?" Luck asks. He pushes his chair back from the desk. The wheels creak. Dallas can't believe he's doing this.

He gets up, though, gets up and comes around the desk, because if there's anything left in his life that matters, anything good at all, it's Eve, and he can't let Luck Gandor have her if there's anything he can do about it.

Luck just watches, not moving, even when Dallas gets down on his knees on the floor. Son of a bitch can't do anything to make this easy for him. He doesn't do anything to _stop_ Dallas, either, though, just watches with that nasty little smile when Dallas reaches out to unbuckle his belt.

"This do?" Dallas asks. God. He's touching Luck Gandor's cock. The bastard's getting hard and everything.

He thinks the slight motion Luck makes then is a nod. "Go on," Luck says. Pushy son of a bitch.

Dallas thinks he's probably never hated himself this much. He leans down, steadies himself with hands on Luck's well-tailored trousers, and God help him, starts to suck Luck Gandor's cock.

It's awful. It's too big to fit in his mouth comfortably and it tastes strange, bitter, and Luck's little sound of satisfaction makes it worse. Bastard always sounds so God damn smug about everything. Dallas closes his eyes and tries to make himself just do it, get it over with.

Luck cards a hand into his hair and holds him down, not hard, more a suggestion than a real push, just enough weight to make sure Dallas remembers what he's supposed to be doing. Sucking cock. Getting as much of it down his throat as he can. He's not sure whether he hates himself or Luck more.

And then Luck shifts, pushes into his mouth just a little, but it's still too much, makes him gag, only he can't pull up because Luck's holding him there and it's not anything like the same but oh God he feels like he can't breathe and there's roaring in his ears and he's clutching at the fabric under his hands because he can't help himself and --

Luck's hand in his hair pulls him up, and he's gasping, coughing, taking deep, heaving breaths. That wasn't even close to what it felt like but still.

"Get up," Luck says.

Dallas looks up, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach, not sure if he can stand to make himself argue. He can't even do this right, huh? He offered the only thing he had, really, and Luck just --

"Over the desk," Luck says, cool and casual as ever.

Oh God.

"You want to -- you --" Dallas tries to get out, and then just can't finish. He makes himself get up, and his knees feel stiff and he should just take what's left of his dignity and walk out of here, but that's not what he does. Because he's still hoping this will _work_, hoping Luck will agree to back off and not bother Eve anymore. His cheeks burn and his stomach is in knots but he bends over the God damn desk anyway.

Luck gets up behind him and unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants. Dallas feels the air against his skin and braces himself for this to hurt. At least he's not choking anymore. He should think about the fact that he can breathe.

Instead of just starting to fuck him, though, Luck opens one of the drawers in the desk -- for a second Dallas is afraid he's going for a gun, going to switch from humiliation to straight-out violence -- but when Dallas tries to get up Luck puts a hand on the small of his back to hold him still. "Relax," he says.

The laugh escapes before Dallas can help himself, thin and nervous. "Easy for you to say," he says. He looks back over his shoulder and Luck's watching him.

"It's good advice," Luck says. He's doing the smile again. "The immortality helps make it easier, but you'll still have a better time if you don't fight it."

Wait, that sounds almost like --

Luck slides his fingers into the crack of Dallas's ass, and they're wet, and he pushes and Dallas clenches his teeth hard so he won't make noise. It hurts for a second but that fades fast and then it's just fucking weird. Luck Gandor is fingering his ass, slowly, like Dallas is some fancy hooker he wants to play with, and that's just God damn creepy. He shouldn't have come down here in the first place, should know better than to think the Gandors will ever be interested in anything but messing with him.

And then Luck reaches down with his other hand and takes hold of Dallas's cock.

"What the hell," Dallas says, and he'd flinch if he could but it's not like he has anywhere to go, with Luck's hands on him -- in him -- like this, son of a bitch.

"It's not that bad, is it?" Luck says, and Dallas would swear he's trying not to laugh. But he's good at it -- that's the part Dallas really hates. He strokes Dallas's cock steady and smooth and it's not really enough of a distraction except that it's working, making Dallas get hard like a God damn queer.

"Shit," Dallas says, despite himself, holding on to the edge of the desk, and he moves because he's trying to get _comfortable_, right, because being stretched out and full like this is weird, only it comes out as if he's trying to get Luck in him deeper, and Luck moans.

"Feels like you're ready," Luck says.

He's not ready, not _going_ to be ready, but this isn't about him. "It's your show," Dallas says.

Luck pulls his fingers out and Dallas holds on tighter to the desk, tries not to panic again -- deep breaths, right, still breathing, not really hurt -- and as he breathes out Luck pushes, God damn it, and that feels so _big_ and he's damn well not going to say that out loud because Luck doesn't deserve the flattery but he can't help this noise that he thinks someone else would probably call a whimper.

"Yes," Luck says, low and breathy, and when he gets it all the way in -- Dallas hopes it's all the way in, anyway, doesn't think he could stand any more -- he just stops, like he's gloating over the fact that he has his cock up Dallas's ass. And okay, Dallas knows why he'd want to do that -- and he needs to not think about Eve right now, because he doesn't want the bastard to think he's enjoying this -- but that doesn't mean he wants to be on the wrong end of it. God, what a creep.

And when Luck starts to move again, he's really just sort of rocking, not thrusting hard at all, and mostly what he's doing is stroking Dallas's cock.

"What are you doing?" Dallas says. He's uncomfortable, too full, too stretched open, and Luck's hand on his cock is making him hard anyway. "I don't, ah."

"Rather do it yourself?" Luck asks.

"I don't want to do it at all," Dallas says, reaching down, taking hold of Luck's wrist. "Not when you're -- God damn it."

"But I want you to," Luck says, and doesn't let go. "I want to feel you come, Dallas."

"Son of a _bitch_," Dallas says, and then cringes a little, because he really doesn't want Luck pissed at him again.

But Luck just laughs, and won't let go of him. "That's not polite," he says. "I could be making this very unpleasant for you."

Dallas grits his teeth. "Sorry," he says. He wonders if Luck expects him to add _Mister Gandor_, and can't make himself do it. He can feel the tendons in Luck's wrist moving under his fingertips as Luck jerks him off. He rests his head on his other arm, tries not to make noise, tries to convince himself that the weirdness of having a cock up his ass is tolerable.

The awful part is that he's not having a lot of trouble with that. He's not hurt, just full, and it means he's paying a lot of attention to how _everything_ feels down there, and Luck Gandor is an arrogant bastard but he knows how to give a good hand job, firm grip like he's, fuck, like he's holding a pistol, and there's just enough roughness -- get it over with, Dallas thinks, you bastard -- and it's _weird_, his cock stuffed up Dallas's ass like that, like he's not giving Dallas any room to get worked up -- it's like being trapped, being cornered, and Dallas's breath hitches in his chest and he has nowhere to go to get away from how it feels, which is like he can't and he's about to, both at once --

And when he _does_ it still feels like that, drawn out and sensitive in weird places and he's thinking about Luck Gandor's cock while he comes, and that's not something he ever wanted to do.

Then Luck starts to really screw him, and Dallas needs more breath to curse. The friction's hard to take, and there's this spot up his ass that's too sensitive, and he calls Luck just about every name he can think of, inhale-curse-repeat, and Luck doesn't even make any veiled threats about it -- just holds him by the hips and pounds his ass, fast and hard and when Luck comes he makes this raw animal noise that makes Dallas's stomach roll over, because it's this totally vulnerable sound and he half expects Luck to shoot him for hearing it.

Instead what happens is that Luck slumps over his back, so Dallas can feel the heat of breath on the nape of his neck. He's sticky, too hot with Luck pressed so close to him. He braces his hands against the desk, pushes back, and he winces at the awkward moment when Luck's cock slips out of his ass. "We're done here, right?"

"I suppose so," Luck says. He steps back, gives Dallas enough room to move, and his fingers brush the backs of Dallas's thighs for a second. Creepy bastard. "You can wash up across the hall before you leave, if you'd like."

Sounds a hell of a lot better than going downstairs like this, that's for sure. Dallas pulls his pants back up, turns and tries -- almost manages -- to look Luck in the eyes. "And you'll leave Eve alone?"

He thinks Luck's little gesture is a nod. It had better be. "Will you be back?" Luck says.

There's no air left in the room. It's all Dallas can do to keep breathing. "You want me to," he says.

"I'd like that," Luck says calmly. "Next week, same time?"

Dallas thinks he'd kill Luck if it would last. "If you want," he says. "Okay."


End file.
